The Druid Read online

  THE DRUID

  by

  Steven A. McKay

  KINDLE EDITION

  Copyright ©2018

  Book 1 in the

  WARRIOR DRUID OF BRITAIN

  CHRONICLES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  in whole or in part, without prior written permission

  from the copyright holder.

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Author’s Note

  ALSO BY STEVEN A. MCKAY & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Places in The Druid

  CONCEPT ART

  CHAPTER ONE

  AD 430, Alt Clota, Northern Britain

  Bellicus gazed up at the night sky, taking in the always awe-inspiring sight as he emptied his bladder of the barley beer he’d drank that evening. The silent pin-pricks of light in the near-blackness, and the crescent moon with its strange, enigmatic features, entranced him almost completely and, for a time, he forgot where he was.

  The door behind him opened though, and the sounds of happy carousing brought him back to reality with a slightly inebriated jolt. He tucked himself in and folded his robe back around his great torso, silently acknowledging the respectful greeting from the newcomer, a middle-aged commoner who’d also come outside to relieve himself.

  “Cai! Eolas!”

  At the druid’s shout a powerfully-built young dog came loping through the dark, tongue lolling, white teeth visible in the moonlight as if it were grinning. It was followed moments later by an older, leaner hound. With a final look upwards at the vast canopy of stars, Bellicus drew the beasts towards him then pushed the door open and went back into the great hall. The firelight, and overpowering smells of roasting meat, stale vomit and sweat assailed his senses as he strode back to the king’s table, faithful Cai and Eolas by his side.

  Coroticus, High King of the Damnonii glanced up at the huge, shaven-headed figure of the druid and rolled his eyes as Nectovelius, lord of this settlement, spoke earnestly into his ear, no doubt complaining about some insignificant local problem here in Dun Buic. Coroticus’s wife, Queen Narina sat on the king’s right, sipping a cup of wine.

  Bellicus regained his stool beside Nectovelius, tearing off a piece of bread from the fresh loaf on the trencher before him and chewing thoughtfully as his hazel eyes scanned the long hall, taking in everything and everyone.

  He had a special talent for understanding people. For accurately judging a man’s character from just his facial features and the way he carried himself. His intuition was greatly valued by Coroticus and it had led to the young druid’s elevated position as the king’s personal advisor.

  “Who better to have at your side,” Coroticus had smiled, “than a giant druid who can read a man’s intentions in an instant and fight like a centurion?”

  Bellicus felt a warm glow, from pride at the remembered praise as much as from the beer, another mug of which he raised now to his lips and sipped appreciatively.

  It was true, he was a fine judge of character – a gift from the gods which, like all his natural talents, had been honed to a sharp edge by druid mentors. His renowned martial prowess was similarly predicated on years of hard work, preternatural instinct, and the finest teachers this side of the Romans’ walls.

  Being taller than any other man he’d ever met was also an advantage when it came to a fight although, as a druid, he wasn’t expected to form part of the shield wall. That hadn’t stopped him trying it a handful of times of course. The first, terrifying, battle had almost turned his bowels to water, but he forced himself to go through it again, and again, until one day he’d found himself merely nervous, rather than terrified, as he and his comrades faced down the charge of two-dozen marauders from across the sea to the west.

  After that, he’d given up the shield wall. He’d conquered his fears and it had served its purpose.

  Now he sat, warm inside the hall despite the chilly night with its cloudless, wondrous sky, watching as the men and women of Dun Buic enjoyed their host’s hospitality.

  King Coroticus, with his family and personal guards, had visited many of his liege-lords recently on a trip that lasted several weeks and covered much of the old wall built by Antoninus Pius which, unlike the emperor Hadrian’s earlier fortification to the south, was more of an earthen mound than a stone construction. On Coroticus’s way back to his home, the great fortress at Dun Breatann, he’d stopped here at nearby Dun Buic, where Lord Nectovelius had been glad to welcome his king and queen.

  Nectovelius stood up at that moment, face flushed with drink, slightly unsteady on his feet but happy.

  “My friends,” he shouted, raising his right arm aloft, cup splashing mead onto the grimy rushes that covered the entire floor. “Friends,” he called once more, voice lost in the drunken merriment and, again, Coroticus met Bellicus’s eyes, an amused look on the king’s face which he quickly, and diplomatically, concealed when Nectovelius peered around at him, shamed by his failure to bring the rowdy villagers to attention.

  The lord sank down once more, hunching into his high-backed chair as if he might hide there.

  Coroticus jerked his head at the druid and Bellicus, noting his king’s wordless command stood, drawing in a great lungful of air.

  “Silence!”

  His voice seemed to fill the hall from end to end, reverberating from the rafters as if they were in one of the Christians’ stone churches with their clever acoustics. But this was merely a ramshackle old long hall, its wooden walls and rafters rotten and tired, and the druid’s voice, so incongruously and unnaturally loud, brought a stillness to the gathering that made Nectovelius’s face pale.

  “Your lord would speak with you.”

  Bellicus gestured with his left hand and Nectovelius peered up at him, wide-eyed and bemused, until at last the druid’s words penetrated his drink-addled brain and he pulled himself upright, forcing a smile back onto his bearded face as he addressed the now-silent gathering.

  “My friends,” the lordling smiled, then looked down at the table, searching for his mead cup which he found and drained quickly, nervously, before continuing. “Tonight we are honoured by the presence of our High King and his retinue.”

  There were cheers at his proclamation – Coroticus was a popular king from a long line who had kept the marauding Saxons, Picts and Dalriadans mostly at bay since the Roman garrison that had been based in nearby Credigone had departed sixty years ago.

  “A royal visit is cause for much celebration,” Nectovelius continued when the babble of appreciation had died down. “So, eat and drink your fill, and enjoy the hospitality of my hall this night.”

  Such an exhortation brought, predictably, more raucous cheers from the gathered villagers who were always pleased at the suggestion of a feast. It didn’t take a skilled orator to brin
g a crowd to heel, Bellicus mused. The promise of free meat and drink was ever enough to win the masses over.

  And why not? The druid lifted his own cup which had just been refilled by a serving girl and drank deeply. It was a fine moonlit night, they were safe here in this poorly maintained yet comfortable enough hall, and – he glanced sideways at the figure between himself and King Coroticus – they were with good companions.

  The queen must have felt the druid’s piercing gaze as she turned then to look directly at him, meeting his eyes, a small smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. He returned Narina’s stare but his attention was rudely drawn away as he heard Nectovelius continue his drunken address to the people of Dun Buic.

  “...in their party is the renowned bard, Bellicus,” the lord was saying. His words didn’t draw cheers this time, only excited murmurs. People were wary of the giant who was known to be as much a warrior as he was a druid.

  Bellicus never called himself a bard, however. He tossed a piece of fatty beef to the slavering dog beneath the table and waited, irritated, for the noble to continue.

  “Perhaps you will sing for us this night?” Nectovelius said, looking blearily at the druid, a slack-jawed smile on his face. “A song of battle, and honour?”

  “And love!” a female voice broke in from the crowd, bringing laughs.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” a man leered and everyone raised their drinks aloft, cheering, men hungrily eyeing the women and girls serving the drinks.

  Bellicus considered the request. The Romans had tried to obliterate the druids and their teachings but those in the north, far from Imperial rule, carried on their traditions. Specially chosen young men like Bellicus still learned the lore and skills of ages long past from their elders. So, of course he could carry a tune, but he didn’t particularly welcome the chance to do it this night.

  Singing was a talent he’d neglected while practising others— perfecting his unnerving stare for example. He’d spent many hours over the years glaring at his own reflection in a bronze mirror looted from some ruined Roman villa in the southern lands. As a result, he could put the fear of the gods into most men in Alt Clota and beyond with little more than a look. But singing? Bellicus hadn’t sung much recently as Coroticus had other, dedicated musicians, and he racked his brain now, trying to recall the words and melodies to some of his favourite songs.

  “Do we have any instruments, or musicians, in the hall?” he demanded, at last, into the expectant silence.

  “Aye,” a man nodded, raising a wooden flute while another, beside him, showed a drum, and another a simple horn. Clearly these men had been expecting to provide some entertainment for the evening in return for goods or favour from their lord.

  “Do you know ‘Rhydderch The Red’”?

  “Aye,” the flautist repeated, while the horn player cried, “Everyone knows that, don’t they?” to shouts of agreement throughout the hall. It was a simple song about rebirth with parts everyone could sing—or shout—along with, and it always went down well at a feast.

  “Then we’ll do that,” Bellicus said, coming around to the front of the long table and leaning his backside against it comfortably, facing out towards the crowd, a small smile on lips he licked now to moisten. “If you’d like to start?”

  The drummer nodded, glanced at his companions to make sure they were ready, then slowly began to beat out the rhythm.

  The people joined in, stamping their feet on the rush-strewn floor, before the horn player came in, adding his hypnotic droning bass sound and then the sweet piping of the flute filled the room with its familiar melody.

  Bellicus waited until the flute ended its refrain before he began singing the first verse in a low voice, the people hushing to listen while their feet continued tapping the infectious beat.

  “Rhydderch the Red went walking one day,

  But ‘ere long the sky turned to grey,

  And he met with a man who took him away,

  To a place where the sun could nevermore stray.

  Come the snow! And the rain!

  And the flowers all die and the tracks wash away,

  Come the frost! And the hail!

  And the light left the sky and the crops they all failed.”

  The revellers joined in with the chorus and Bellicus raised his own voice to be heard.

  The drummer held the beat and the flute joined in again, a trilling little melody which soared above the other instruments as the horn’s drone became a staccato that matched the drum’s faster rhythm.

  Bel grinned, enjoying the music and his own part within it, and his eyes scanned the room as people formed into small, swirling pockets of dancers. Even children were there, and the druid saw the little blonde-headed figure of Princess Catia darting in and out between the adults, a joyous smile on her face.

  King Coroticus had wished for a child for a long, long time before, at last, Queen Narina gave birth to Catia eight years ago. The king was naturally disappointed that his wife hadn’t borne him a son and heir but as the babe grew he had found himself softening towards her.

  And who wouldn’t? Bellicus wondered as he continued into the second verse, climbing nimbly on top of the lord’s table and leading the singing from that lofty position. Slaves darted to remove the trenchers of food and mugs of ale before they were destroyed by the druid’s stamping feet while his muscular pet dog, Cai, placed its forepaws up on the wood and watched proceedings like a sentry.

  Eolas was content to remain lying beneath the table, tail moving gently from side to side.

  The young princess, Catia, was a ray of sunshine in the dark winter nights with her mischievous smile, endearingly earnest conversations, and uncanny ability to make even the gloomiest of people cheerful. Right now, she was dancing with an older lady, holding the matron’s chubby hands and squealing in delight as she was lifted off her feet in the spinning dance which, somehow, hadn’t yet ended in a drunken mess of sprawling bodies.

  “And Rhydderch did cry for the life left behind,

  And the woman he’d left, for she’d been so fine.

  And so he resolved to leave this strange land,

  And he reached out and took up his sword in his hand.

  Come the spring! And the sun!

  And the lady at home who knew he’d return,

  Come the light, in the black!

  As the land came to life and the hero went back.”

  Bellicus’s voice rose in power now as the musicians went into the final section of the chorus and the druid could see, from the corner of his eye, the queen, disapproving frown on her face, gesturing for her lady-in-waiting to return the princess to her seat. His smile widened as Catia evaded the woman’s grasping hands and skipped off into the crowd nearer the back of the hall.

  It would take more than a fat servant woman to capture the girl.

  “Come the spring! And the sun!

  As the light-bringer stretched out his unshakeable hand.”

  Come the light, in the black!

  Spring returned to the land,

  Once Rhydderch came back…”

  The melody slowed and everyone in the room, even the queen, joined in with the final lines of the song, their voices loud and joyous in the dark, smoky hall and then the place fell into a breathless silence as all eyes turned to Bellicus who seemed huge and magnificent atop the table.

  “Another!”

  “Aye, sing us another!”

  The calls became a chant, so loud that, at first, no one heard the doors being smashed open or the harsh sound of metal meeting metal as the guards stationed there were attacked by half-a-dozen armed men.

  Bellicus saw it all unfolding though and knew the best way to capture everyone’s attention in an instant.

  “Fire!”

  His powerful voice split the audience’s happy chanting, penetrating to the very core of their being like few other words could.

  “Fire!” Bellicus roared again, pointing at the figh
ting men by the doorway. By now the unknown attackers had been joined by reinforcements and it seemed like they’d have an easy task rampaging through the hall, killing anyone that stood before them.

  The druid, not surrendering his raised position on top of the table, turned to Coroticus, looking for his lord’s orders.

  The king had drawn his sword and pushed the queen behind him but there was uncertainty in the man’s eyes and no wonder. This attack had come from nowhere and the noise and strong drink made everyone’s reflexes sluggish.

  Coroticus looked up at Bellicus, then back into the smoky hall, squinting into the confusing mass of people, uncertainty giving way at last to a murderous rage.

  “Kill them!” the king screamed, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Kill the bastards!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bellicus drew the knife from its sheath at his waist and jumped headlong from the table, using the momentum to propel himself through the air at one of the nearest invaders. He crashed into the man, a great bearded brute with flashing eyes, and hammered the blade into his neck. The wound erupted in a gout of blood which drenched the druid’s hand, but Bellicus moved on without stopping.

  “Cai! Here, boy!” The muscular hound slipped through the confused, shouting mass of people and appeared by the giant’s side as he fixed upon another target. “Attack.”

  The dog lunged forward and fastened upon the man’s wrist, powerful jaws crushing the bones and drawing a scream of pure agony which was cut off as Bellicus punched him in the mouth, knocking him backwards to the ground. Cai moved then from arm to throat and, again, like some avenging demon, the druid’s huge robed figure moved on, searching for more of these attackers to kill, the lean form of Eolas now at his rear.

  It wasn’t going well for the invaders, he could see. Some of the local men, and women too, had shown their courage by fighting back, despite the fact they wore no armour or carried war gear and now, only three of the intruders still stood.